


Proud of Your Boy

by xmjcx



Series: golden boy [1]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Kristoff's childhood, Modern AU, although some things might not make sense, but I suppose can be read on its own, prequel to 'golden boy', set in my boxer AU 'Golden Boy'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23002900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmjcx/pseuds/xmjcx
Summary: Kristoff's life before Anna in the 'Golden Boy' world.
Relationships: Anna/Kristoff (Disney)
Series: golden boy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762186
Comments: 39
Kudos: 59





	1. I'm gonna keep you

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: childhood abuse, trauma, physical abuse, adoption 
> 
> nothing graphic or heavily detailed, but I do allude to it, so

  
  
He was seven years old when they found him wandering the streets, alone. His parents had been dead for as long as he could remember – their voices no longer lingered in his memory anymore, though he couldn’t have been sure at what point he had forgotten them – and it was only March, but Kristoff had been moved to his third children’s home that year. He didn’t like it there at all, and he’d managed to tiptoe out of the back door without being noticed.  
  
He would have run away and never looked back if there had been anywhere for him to run to, but Kristoff had no friends or family. Instead, he decided to explore the streets of this unfamiliar town – it was cold, now that they had moved him further north – and get away, even if it was only for a few hours.  
  
He hadn’t been much to look at, of course – just a small, skinny little thing with a mop of blonde hair. Bruises covered his arms, although they were hidden beneath the thin, grey long-sleeved tee that he wore; and his face was filthy, since he hadn’t washed in the four days that he had been in the new home. The cold wind was bitter against his cheeks, but he fought against the urge to wrap his hands around his small waist and hug himself.  
  
At this point, death by hypothermia didn’t seem like too poor an option.  
  
He had no idea how long he had been wandering the streets for before he came upon a bakery. The smell of fresh bread was far too strong for Kristoff to ignore, and his empty stomach rumbled loudly as his senses were awoken by the delicious scent. Kristoff’s mouth began to water at the thought of _anything_ to eat, but he recalled the last time that he had attempted to scavenge food for himself and shuddered.  
  
He hadn’t been able to walk straight for weeks after the beating that he had received, and he hadn’t dared to tell anyone, for he knew that he would only be beat again if he admitted what he had done to receive the initial one.  
  
Kristoff had stood outside the bakery – frozen in thought and transfixed by the sight of the pastries in the window – when a friendly voice called out to him. He looked towards the entrance door of the bakery with wide, worried eyes; and he was about to insist that he was only looking, that he wasn’t going to touch anything, _honestly_ , but the short woman with dark skin and kind eyes smiled at him softly.  
  
“Are you hungry, dear?” she asked, despite the smile on her face, Kristoff narrowed his eyes in suspicion. At just seven years old, he had been lured in by false pretenses before; and he knew that most people couldn’t be trusted – not even _women_.  
  
He wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come, and he looked up at her from where she lingered in the doorway of the bakery. The woman considered him for a moment, and then she wiped her hands on her apron before she disappeared inside.  
  
Kristoff’s heart raced within his chest as adrenaline coursed through him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him, apart from the nuns and the priest at the children’s home, and he wasn’t sure that he would even know what to say if he were to respond to her. Kristoff felt a twinge of disappointment as she disappeared, but then the woman re-appeared almost as quickly as she had left.  
  
This time, she carried several pastries in her hands and stepped out of the bakery towards where he was still stood frozen on the gravel. Kristoff tensed instinctively as she approached – his eyes wide and his legs ready to bolt at any second, should she raise one of those hands to him – but the woman seemed to sense his caution. She wasn’t particularly tall, anyway; but she bent her legs so that she could crouch before him, and there was still enough distance between the two of them that Kristoff was confident she wouldn’t be able to grab him before he could run.  
  
“Do you understand me, sweetheart?” she asked, and Kristoff swallowed before he nodded once, still unsure of his ability to say anything at all. The woman smiled and tentatively held out one hand towards him, offering him a croissant. “Would you like something to eat?”  
  
Kristoff continued to eye her warily, but he nodded his head slowly in response to her question. The sight of the pastry being held out so closely to him was tempting enough, but then he caught a whiff of it, and his stomach grumbled in approval. His brown eyes widened at the sound, and the woman laughed.  
  
“Here you go then, cutie,” she said as she shuffled a little closer to him.  
  
Kristoff slowly extended his hand so that he could take it from her, and he didn’t hesitate to bring the food to his mouth and take a bite. He wanted to close his eyes and savour the moment – it tasted so _good_ \- but he didn’t trust this stranger enough to let his guard down that easily, and so he kept both eyes open and focused on her, just in case.  
  
“That good?” she asked as he took another bite, and Kristoff nodded as he swallowed.  
  
The woman watched him with a fond smile until he had eaten the whole thing, and once he had licked the crumbs from each of his fingers, Kristoff blinked up at her.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and the woman looked at him with such warmth in her eyes that he felt his heart ache. Kristoff couldn’t recall a time when _anyone_ had looked at him like that.  
  
“Have you eaten today?” she asked him, and Kristoff shook his head from side to side. He needed to be back by six o’clock, otherwise he would miss supper, the only meal that the children were fed all day. “Where do you live?”  
  
Kristoff cleared his throat and told her the name of the children’s home that he had been relocated to, and the woman’s eyes widened in understanding before her face softened once more. “Would you like to come in?” she asked him, and she beckoned towards the bakery. “I can fix you something fresh to eat. How about some soup? Or a nice toasted sandwich?”  
  
Despite the fact that he had wolfed down the croissant, Kristoff couldn’t help but eye up the other pastries that remained in the woman’s hands; and his stomach grumbled once again at the thought of more food, of _warm_ food. He nodded his head eagerly, but as the woman stood tall, he remembered that he had to be back at the home for six.  
  
“Do you know the time, miss?” he asked, and the woman cocked her head as she looked down at him. “I have to be back for six, or I won’t make it to supper.”  
  
Her dark brown eyes softened once again, and the woman let out a sigh before she reached out an open palm towards him. Kristoff eyed her hand carefully, and although it had been _years_ since anyone had held his hand, he seemed to know instinctively what it was that she was asking him to do. The woman didn’t answer his question, and Kristoff wasn’t entirely sure that he could trust her not to hurt him; but she _had_ fed him, which was more than anyone else had ever done, and the thought of a warm meal in his belly was far too tempting for him to resist.  
  
So, Kristoff tentatively raised his own small hand and placed it in hers. The woman seemed to relax as she wrapped her larger hand around his, and she inhaled deeply before she spoke again.  
  
“What’s your name?” she asked him as she guided him towards the entrance of the bakery.  
  
“Kristoff,” he said, his eyes wide and distracted as he walked through the doors and was greeted with the sight of more food than he had seen for months.  
  
“Kristoff,” the woman repeated, a smile on her lips. “It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Bulda.”  
  
Kristoff nodded his head as she continued to walk through the bakery until they reached another door with a sign on it, but Kristoff couldn’t read, so he didn’t know what it said. The woman nudged the door open with her hip and walked him through, still hand-in-hand.  
  
“Tell me, Kristoff,” she said as she walked him towards a wooden table. “Do you have any family?”  
  
Kristoff shook his head and released the woman’s - _Bulda’s_ \- hand as she pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit at it. He did as she wished, and Bulda smiled as she pushed the chair back into the table, tucking him under it.  
  
“Bulda?” a deep voice rumbled, and Kristoff jerked his head in the direction of the door. There, stood a man – a little taller than Bulda, with dark skin and dark hair, too, although his eyes were lighter – who was frowning, slightly. “Who’s this?”  
  
Kristoff’s hands began to tremble from underneath the table, where they rested on his cotton pants, and Bulda placed the pastries that she had gathered in her hand down onto the surface of the table before she moved to brush her fingers through his mop of blonde hair. Kristoff flinched instinctively at the contact, but he quickly relaxed into her touch as she continued to run her fingers through the fair strands.  
  
“Kristoff, this is Cliff, my husband,” she said, and Kristoff didn’t miss the way in which Bulda smiled over at the man, who was now stepping further into the kitchen. “Cliff, honey, this is Kristoff; and we’re going to keep him.”


	2. before the payment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely zero experience of the foster/adoption/child protection (etc) system/services in Norway and therefore I have taken obvious liberties with this story and to be honest with you, at this point I am just rolling with it 
> 
> apologies in advance for my inaccuracies x

  
  
Unfortunately, the process of fostering a child wasn’t as simple as saying _I want that one_ and being done with it; and so once Kristoff had eaten his toasted sandwich – and had even licked all of the crumbs from his plate – he joined Bulda and Cliff in their car and told them the name of his foster home once again.  
  
The drive over felt like it lasted a lifetime, although in reality, it only took around twenty minutes or so. Kristoff had always been observant – he _had_ to be – and so he sat quietly in the back and attempted to listen to Bulda and Cliff’s hushed conversation, although he was often distracted by the sights that he saw out of the window, and so he only managed to pick up on bits and pieces of what they said.  
  
_Are you sure, Bulda, I – we've discussed this, I thought we wanted to –_  
  
_Are you seriously asking me that, Cliff? He walked right up to our door. He found_ us _. If that isn’t fate –_  
  
_Alright, alright, I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even look anything like us, and I –_  
  
_You think that matters to me?_  
  
_You know that’s not what I meant, I just –_  
  
_I’ve made up my mind, Cliff. I made it as soon as I laid eyes upon that boy._  
  
_I know, I just – I just wanted to make sure that you were sure._  
  
_And I told you, I’m sure._  
  
Their hushed whispers ceased, then, and Bulda turned over her shoulder in order to offer Kristoff a reassuring smile from where he sat in the back seat.  
  
“We’re going to go and make sure we get all of your paperwork sorted, and then we’ll get you home; alright, sweetheart?” she asked, and Kristoff nodded his head to show her that he had listened, that he had understood.  
  
Bulda gave him a toothy grin before she turned around once more, and Kristoff returned his attention to the streets outside of the window, and he wondered over how much could change in life in such a short space of time.  
  


.

.

.

The paperwork side of things was rather thorough – and therefore incredibly boring – and Kristoff tried his best to remember to sit up straight and stay quiet throughout the whole process. He definitely did not huff or puff, and he jerked upright each time that he felt his shoulders begin to slouch whilst the adults talked about living arrangements and regular inspections and state money.  
  
“Next week?” Bulda asked, her eyes wide and her voice louder than before, and Kristoff’s heart skipped a beat as his fists clenched tightly against either side of his chair.  
  
He must have heard that incorrectly – surely he wouldn’t have to stay here for another week.  
  
Bulda glanced down at him, a worried expression on her face, and he found himself returning her solemn look.  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman across said with a frown. “It’s Friday,” her monotonous voice drawled on, “and the paperwork won’t reach the city until Tuesday, at the earliest, and then it takes time to process the payment.”  
  
Bulda frowned at that and opened her mouth to say something, but Cliff’s deeper, rougher voice beat her to it.  
  
“We don’t care about the payment,” he told the woman. “Can’t he come home with us now?”  
  
Kristoff had had to lean forward in his chair so that he could see Cliff, since he was sat so closely to Bulda; and his wide brown eyes jumped back over to the woman who sat across the desk once again. He watched as she slowly looked up from the documents that she had been scribbling on and peered over her glasses at the couple, a strange expression on her face.  
  
“I -” she stammered, clearly surprised. “You’d like to take him _before_ you receive your payment?” she asked, her dark brows furrowed.  
  
Bulda looked at the woman as though that was the most obvious thing in the world – one of those _are you serious_ looks – and she placed a protective hand on one of Kristoff’s small shoulders.  
  
This time, he didn’t flinch away from her touch.  
  


.

.

.

  
  
  
By the time that they pulled up outside Bulda and Cliff’s bakery, it was dark – and, he assumed, late – but Kristoff felt more awake than he had done when he had woken up to face the day that very morning.  
  
His sparse belongings – just a couple of ratty tee shirts and dirty pants that came up to his ankles – had been shoved into a plastic bag, and he had been given all of thirty seconds to say his goodbyes to the other children who he left behind at the home before he had been ushered out of the room by one of the nuns.  
  
“Come on, then, cutie,” Bulda cooed as she opened the passenger door for him and stretched around him in order to unfasten his seatbelt. “Let’s get you inside and clean you up. How does a nice, hot bath sound?”  
  
Kristoff cocked his head at her as he stepped out of the car and followed Cliff into the bakery. He’d had baths before, of course – he had one per week at his last home – although he usually shared a tub with at least four or five other children, and the water was never particularly clean or hot like Bulda described. The idea of it piqued his interest, and after a moment or two of deliberating, Kristoff smiled and nodded his head at her.  
  
It turned out that the couple lived in an apartment above their bakery, and Bulda chattered away to Kristoff as she ran the bath for him; explaining that they had enough space so that he would be able to have his own room, and that she would take him to the store so that he could choose whatever he wanted to decorate it with and everything. For now, she asked if it would be alright with him if he stayed on the couch – _you won’t be on your own, I’ll sleep on the other one_ \- since he had been an unexpected arrival, and they hadn’t had time to get anything else prepared for him.  
  
Kristoff, of course, agreed.  
  
“There,” she said as she dipped her elbow into the water for what had to be the fifth time in the last few minutes. “Perfect. Do you want me to help you get those clothes off, Kristoff, or can you do it yourself?”  
  
“I can do it,” he told her, although he was too busy looking over at the tub with his mouth wide open to actually focus on taking off his clothes.  
  
The plethora of white, fluffy bubbles that had built up above the water was nothing like Kristoff had ever seen before, and his eyes had widened dramatically at the sight. Bulda seemed a little amused from where she sat on the corner of the tub, and she regarded him with a soft expression.  
  
“Have you ever had a bubble bath before, honey?” she asked him as she dipped her fingers into the water and sloshed it around a little, and Kristoff shook his head from side to side. “Well, you’re going to love it, I’m sure,” she said.  
  
And, of course, Bulda had been right – he _had_ loved it. The warm temperature of the water was both unfamiliar and unexpected, and he had flinched a little as he placed his big toe into it. The older woman had watched patiently as he inspected the tub carefully, then; and the bubbles had mostly congregated to one side of the tub, and Kristoff was surprised to find that the water was clean enough that he was able to see right through to the shining white bottom of the tub.  
  
At least, he was able to see right through it until he stepped into the tub.  
  
He had sat himself down in the centre of the tub when he first noticed the way in which Bulda’s face had fallen, and panic stirred within him as he looked to find the cause of her frown. He realised then that the water had turned a murky, dark shade of brown since he had entered it; and his own eyes widened as he looked up in horror at where Bulda was still positioned on the edge of the tub.  
  
Kristoff curled his shoulders inwards as he looked up at her sad expression. He hadn’t even been here for one night, and he was already messing it all up, and he should have known that he wouldn’t have been able to make Bulda and Cliff happy, that he would have screwed up this home like he had done all of his others, but he had hoped; _god_ , he had hoped –  
  
“I’m sorry!” he blurted out in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. His brown eyes roamed over the dirty bathwater, willing it to run clear again, before he looked up at Bulda once more. “I didn’t mean to – to make it go that colour, I swear.”  
  
Bulda’s eyes softened in understanding, and she gushed out hurried words – _oh, Kristoff, no, no, don’t worry_ – as she sank down from where she had been perched on the edge of the tub so that she was now knelt before it. The change in her position meant that she was now eye-level with him, brown eyes pooling into brown eyes, and she lifted her arms in order to bring both of her hands to his face.  
  
Kristoff flinched at the sudden movement, and his jerky reaction caused the water in the tub to slosh wildly. His eyes widened once again, although thankfully, none of the water spilled out of the tub and onto the floor. His body relaxed a little with relief, and then he relaxed even further when Bulda’s hands slowly moved so that they cupped his face. She stroked her thumbs across his cheeks several times as she looked straight into his eyes, and Kristoff sat stoic and silent as she did so.  
  
“You’re such a good boy, Kristoff,” she told him, her eyes filled with unshed tears; and Kristoff fought the urge to look down into the murky water. “I promise you, you’re going to be _so_ happy here.”  
  
He really did not know how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to believe her promise, despite the rapid beating of his heart; but he knew that he couldn’t just ignore her words, and so Kristoff gave her a small smile. It seemed to satisfy her, for she returned it, and then she busied herself by bringing a sponge to his face and slowly cleansing the dirty from his skin; and then she encouraged him to lie back in the water so that she could wash his hair.  
  
“What’s that?” he asked her when she poured a brightly coloured liquid into the palm of her hand, and Bulda let out a twinkling laugh as he propped himself up on his elbows so that he could get a better look at the mysterious liquid.  
  
She brought her hand closer to his face – careful to keep her fingers locked together so that the sticky liquid couldn’t seep through them – and he scrunched up his nose as a floral scent flooded his nostrils.  
  
It wasn’t as though it smelt _bad_ , but the strong scent surprised him.  
  
“It’s shampoo,” she told him with a smile. She waited for a moment and her eyes searched his face; but the word meant nothing at all to Kristoff, so he continued to blink up at her expectantly. Bulda let out a gentle sigh before she ran her hand through his mop of thick blonde hair. “It cleans all your hair, and makes it smell nice,” she explained, and Kristoff let out a soft _oh_ as she massaged his scalp with her nails.  
  
She washed out the shampoo and then repeated the process several times until she was satisfied, but Kristoff didn’t mind. It was more human contact than he had had in weeks – perhaps months – and he happily stayed put in the bath until the water was lukewarm.  
  
Eventually, Bulda pulled the plug and instructed him to stand up and climb out of the water. She had already placed a clean towel on the bathroom floor before he had entered the tub, and she presented another towel – the fluffiest he had ever seen – and wrapped it around his body once he was out of the murky water. She had left it waiting for him on a radiator, so it was nice and warm as she wrapped it around his slim body; and he couldn’t help but laugh as she rubbed it vigorously over his hair.  
  
Whilst Bulda had bathed him, Cliff had been sent to the store with clear instructions from his wife to pick up some new pyjamas for Kristoff to wear, since he came with little clothing and neither of the adults seemed to think much of it. Kristoff’s large brown eyes widened at the sight of the pyjamas: he’d never seen such brightly coloured clothes before _(well, he had, but he’d never seen such brightly coloured clothes that were intended for him to wear before)_ , and he couldn’t help but grin as his fingers traced over the outline of the cartoon mouse on the front of them.  
  
Once Bulda was satisfied that he was clean and dry, she held out the pyjamas for him to step into; and Kristoff tried not to think anything of the way in which her eyes roamed and lingered over the many purple and blue bruises that littered his skin. He had been able to keep most of them hidden from view, until now – the majority were on his upper arms, chest and abdomen, although a few were scattered over his thighs and his calves – and he felt vulnerable and exposed, even under her warm, sympathetic gaze.  
  
“There,” she said once he was dressed, and she ran her fingers through his damp hair. “You’re perfect.”  
  
Bulda nudged one of her fingers against the tip of his nose, and despite himself, Kristoff giggled in surprise from the casual intimacy of her touch.  
  
“Do you think that you’re ready to go to sleep, now?” she asked him, and Kristoff shrugged his shoulders.  
  
He wasn’t used to being asked – usually, he was told when it was bedtime; and he had no idea whether he should answer _yes_ or _no_ to her question.  
  
Bulda hesitated – appearing to be lost in thought for a moment – before Cliff came and crouched beside her, a warm smile on his own face.  
  
“Are you tired, Kristoff?” he asked, and although his voice was deep, it was somehow soft and tender all at the same time. Kristoff swallowed before he nodded his head. “Alright, then – I’ll get you some blankets sorted so that you’re comfortable,” Cliff said with a smile, and then he pulled himself upright and moved out of the living room.  
  
“How about a story?” Bulda said then as she moved towards one of the dark leather couches and sat herself down. “Would you like that, Kristoff?”  
  
He cocked his head to the side at her question. “A story?” he repeated, his eyes narrowed in confusion, although his body moved him towards her – little feet padding against the laminate flooring without his permission – and his eyes widened when he realised that he had brought himself to stand directly in front of her.  
  
Bulda _beamed_ at him, though, and before he could so much as blink, she had picked him up and pulled him onto the couch so that he could sit beside her.  
  
“Yes, Kristoff, a story,” she told him, gentle laughter in her voice. Cliff re-appeared in the living room once again, although he busied himself by preparing the other leather couch with the pile of duvets and blankets that he had sourced from another room. “Would you like me to tell you one, before you go to sleep?”  
  
Kristoff thought over that question, too; once again unsure of how he should answer her, although he was growing more and more confident that none of this was a trick, or some cruel twist, and he thought of how nobody had ever told him a bedtime story before. So, curiosity got the better of him, and Kristoff nodded his head in confirmation.  
  
“Alright, then,” Bulda said with a smile as she placed a tentative arm around his shoulders and nudged him ever so slightly closer to her. “We’ll start at the beginning, of course, like all good stories...”  
  
Within minutes, Kristoff was asleep; warm, clean, with a belly full of food, and happier than he had ever been in his whole seven years of life.


	3. two shoes

Kristoff woke with a start. There were soft blankets that engulfed his small frame, and he was warm and comfortable and – 

Wet. 

No. 

No, no, _no;_ this can’t be happening, he can’t have – 

“Kristoff?” Bulda’s voice rang out from the opposite couch. 

True to her word, she had spent the entire night sleeping across from him. She had told him that she hadn’t wanted to leave his side whilst he settled into the new environment, that she couldn’t bear the thought of him being on his own. It was more than he’d ever had before, and he wanted to tell her that he’d be fine on his own; but there was a part of him that wanted her to stay, a part of him that wanted to not feel so _alone,_ and so he didn’t say anything at all. 

“Are you alright?” she asked as she approached, and Kristoff’s face burned a deep shade of red as he attempted to hide himself beneath the covers. 

The movement caused him to notice that the new pajamas that she had bought for him just last night were drenched, too; and he cringed outwardly before he began to curl in on himself beneath the covers. Bulda frowned as she continued to step cautiously towards him, and he could see on her face the moment that she realised what he had done. 

“Oh, Kristoff,” she said as she lowered herself down onto her knees before him. The smell was worst of all, he thought, and he pulled the covers tighter around himself in a feeble attempt to stop it from meeting her nostrils. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his lips trembled as he squeezed his eyes tightly to a close. 

He should have known that he wouldn’t have been able to do this, should have known that he’d ruin it so soon. Making the bath water filthy last night had already been bad enough, but now _this –_ how was she ever going to forgive him? 

Would she change her mind about him so soon? Would she send him back at once? 

Would she give up on him, too? 

He kept his eyes squeezed shut as he waited for the angry onslaught of words, for the raised hand and the slap to his skin that would follow – 

But it didn’t come. 

“Baby, it’s alright, you don’t need to worry,” she said, and he flinched when she ran a palm through his hair. The shampoo that she had used the night before had made it fluffy and light, and it fell back into place on his forehead no sooner had her hand lifted. 

He opened his eyes once more so that he could blink into hers, and he let out a shaky breath as she repeated the comforting motion. 

“Kristoff, it’s _okay,”_ she told him, and she smiled at him so brightly and spoke to him so kindly that he actually believed her. 

. 

. 

. 

“What do you think of these ones, sweetheart?” Bulda asked as she presented him with a pair of sneakers, and Kristoff blinked curiously as he inspected them. 

She smiled warmly down at him before she lifted the shoes with one hand and tapped the heel of them against the other. The blonde’s eyes widened impossibly as he watched the different colours light up across the bottom section of the shoe, and it was like nothing he had ever seen before. 

Kristoff had only ever had one pair of shoes at a time, before; and none of the shoes that he had had were anything like these. His most recent pair had been handed down to him by one of the older children who had out-grown them - and who had no doubt had them handed down to him, too – thought Kristoff’s feet didn’t quite fit in them properly, and he had to walk a little differently in them because his toes rubbed against the edge of the material from where they desperately tried to poke out of them. 

“Do you like them?” Bulda pressed, and Kristoff nodded his head quickly as she repeated the movement, causing the bright lights to flash in front of his eyes again. “You can have these ones for playing in,” she told him, “but you’ll need something a little sturdier for school, too.” 

He looked up at her with an open mouth and raised brows, surprise evident upon his features. 

“I’ll have _more_?” he asked, unsure of whether he had understood correctly, and Bulda laughed softly as she reached out to cup his face with her hand. He didn’t flinch away from her touch – instead, he leaned into it, quickly learning that her touches were soft and tender and careful, not harsh and quick and forceful. 

“Of course you will, baby,” she told him, and she lifted her hand from his cheek so that she could run it through his hair, her fingers tousling the golden strands. “We might not be able to afford designer things, but so long as you’re with Cliff and I, you’ll always have enough. Okay?” 

Kristoff didn’t know what she meant by _designer,_ but he nodded his head at her anyway, confused at the way in which she said the words to him. She sounded almost apologetic, though he didn’t understand that then; almost like she thought that he might want, or expect, something else entirely. 

But Kristoff had never known anyone who had more than one pair of shoes before, and so he knew then and there that he was the luckiest boy in the world. 


End file.
